Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (5 page)
Read Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
What if she didn’t like either?
When I pulled into her driveway, I realized how excited she, too, was about our date. She was waiting by the door with her coat on. Her hair was curled. She was smiling. “I told my lady friends that I was going out with my son, and they were all impressed,” she said as she got into my car. “They can’t wait until tomorrow to hear about our evening.”
We didn’t go anywhere fancy, just a neighborhood place where we could talk. When we got there my mother clutched my arm—half out of affection and half to help her negotiate the steps into the dining room.
Once we were seated, I had to read the menu for both of us. Her eyes only see large shapes and shadows. Halfway through listing the entrées, I glanced up. Mom was sitting across the table, just looking at me. A wistful smile traced her lips.
“I used to be the menu reader when you were little,” she said.
I understood instantly what she was saying. From caregiver to cared-for, from cared-for to caregiver; our relationship had come full circle.
“Then it’s time for you to relax and let me return the favor,” I said.
We had a nice talk over dinner. Nothing earth-shattering, just catching up with each other’s lives. We talked so much that we missed the movie. “I’ll go out with you again, but only if you let me buy dinner next time,” my mother said as I dropped her off. I agreed.
“How was your date?” my wife wanted to know when I got home that night.
“Nice... nicer than I thought it would be,” I said.
She smiled her told-you-so smile.
Since that night I’ve been dating Mom regularly. We don’t go out every week, but we try to see each other at least a couple of times a month. We always have dinner, and sometimes we take in a movie, too. Mostly, though, we just talk. I tell her about my daily trials at work. I brag about the kids and my wife. She fills me in on the family gossip I can never seem to keep up on.
She also tells me about her past. Now I know what it was like for my Mom to work in a factory during World War II. I know about how she met my father there, and how they nurtured a trolley-car courtship through those difficult times. As I’ve listened to these stories, I’ve come to realize how important they are to me. They are my history. I can’t get enough of them.
But we don’t just talk about the past. We also talk about the future. Because of health problems, my mother worries about the days ahead. “I have so much living to do,” she told me one night. “I need to be there while my grandchildren grow up. I don’t want to miss
any
of it.”
Like a lot of my baby-boomer friends, I tend to rush around, filling my At-A-Glance calendar to the brim as I struggle to fit a career, family and relationships into my life. I often complain about how quickly time flies. Spending time with my mom has taught me the importance of slowing down. I finally understand the meaning of a term I’ve heard a million times: quality time.
Peggy was right. Dating another woman
has
helped my marriage. It has made me a better husband and father, and hopefully, a better son.
Thanks, Mom. I love you.
David Farrell
It was only a few weeks after my surgery, and I went to Dr. Belt’s office for a checkup. It was just after my first chemotherapy treatment.
My scar was still very tender. My arm was numb underneath. This whole set of unique and weird sensations was like having a new roommate to share the two-bedroom apartment formerly known as my breasts—now lovingly known as “the breast and the chest.”
As usual, I was taken to an examination room to have my blood drawn, again—a terrifying process for me, since I’m so frightened of needles.
I lay down on the examining table. I’d worn a big plaid flannel shirt and a camisole underneath. It was a carefully thought out costume that I hoped others would regard as a casual wardrobe choice. The plaid camouflaged my new chest, the camisole protected it and the buttons on the shirt made for easy medical access.
Ramona entered the room. Her warm sparkling smile was familiar, and stood out in contrast to my fears. I’d first seen her in the office a few weeks earlier. She wasn’t my nurse on that day, but I remember her because she was laughing. She laughed in deep, round and rich tones. I remember wondering what could be so funny behind that medical door. What could she possibly find to laugh about at a time like this? So I decided she wasn’t serious enough about the whole thing and that I would try to find a nurse who was. But I was wrong.
This day was different. Ramona had taken my blood before. She knew about my fear of needles, and she kindly hid the paraphernalia under a magazine with a bright blue picture of a kitchen being remodeled. As we opened the blouse and dropped the camisole, the catheter on my breast was exposed and the fresh scar on my chest could be seen.
She said, “How is your scar healing?”
I said, “I think pretty well. I wash around it gently each day.” The memory of the shower water hitting my numb chest flashed across my face.
She gently reached over and ran her hand across the scar, examining the smoothness of the healing skin and looking for any irregularities. I began to cry gently and quietly. She brought her warm eyes to mine and said, “You haven’t touched it yet, have you?” And I said, “No.”
So this wonderful, warm woman laid the palm of her golden brown hand on my pale chest and she gently held it there. For a long time. I continued to cry quietly. In soft tones she said, “This is part of your body. This is you. It’s okay to touch it.” But I couldn’t. So she touched it for me. The scar. The healing wound. And beneath it, she touched my heart.
Then Ramona said, “I’ll hold your hand while you touch it.” So she placed her hand next to mine, and we both were quiet. That was the gift that Ramona gave me.
That night as I lay down to sleep, I gently placed my hand on my chest and I left it there until I dozed off. I knew I wasn’t alone. We were all in bed together, metaphorically speaking, my breast, my chest, Ramona’s gift and me.
Betty Aboussie Ellis
One cold evening during the holiday season, a little boy about six or seven was standing out in front of a store window. The little child had no shoes and his clothes were mere rags. A young woman passing by saw the little boy and could read the longing in his pale blue eyes. She took the child by the hand and led him into the store. There she bought him some new shoes and a complete suit of warm clothing.
They came back outside into the street and the woman said to the child, “Now you can go home and have a very happy holiday.”
The little boy looked up at her and asked, “Are you God, Ma’am?”
She smiled down at him and replied, “No son, I’m just one of His children.”
The little boy then said, “I knew you had to be some relation.”
Dan Clark
Once a month on a Friday morning, I take a turn at the local hospital delivering Sabbath candlesticks to the Jewish female patients registered there. Lighting candles is the traditional way that Jewish women welcome the Sabbath, but hospital regulations don’t allow patients to light real candles. So we offer the next best thing—electric candlesticks that plug in and are turned on at the start of the Jewish Sabbath on Friday at sundown. The Sabbath is over Saturday night. Sunday morning, I retrieve the candlesticks and store them away until the following Friday, when another volunteer comes to distribute them to that week’s group of patients. Sometimes I see the same patients from the previous week.
One Friday morning, as I was making my rounds, I encountered a woman who was very old—perhaps 90. She had short snow-white hair that looked soft and fluffy, like cotton. Her skin was yellow and wrinkled, as if her bones had suddenly shrunk and left the skin around them with nothing to support it and nowhere to go; now it just hung in soft folds on her arms and face. She looked small there in the bed with the blanket pulled up under her arms. Her hands, resting on top of the cover, were gnarled and worn, the hands of experience. But her eyes were clear and blue, and her voice was surprisingly strong as she greeted me. From the list that the hospital had given me, I knew her name was Sarah Cohen.
She told me that she had been expecting me, that she never missed lighting candles at home and that I should just plug them in by the side of the bed where she could reach them. It was obvious that she was familiar with the routine.
I did as she asked and wished her a good Sabbath. As I turned to leave, she said, “I hope my grandchildren get here in time to say good-bye to me.”
I think my face must have registered my shock at her matter-of-fact statement that she knew she was dying, but I touched her hand and said that I hoped so, too.
As I left the room, I almost collided with a young woman who looked to be about twenty or so. She wore a long skirt, peasant-style, and her hair was covered. I heard Mrs. Cohen say, “Malka! I’m glad you could get here. Where is David?”
I had to continue on my rounds, but a part of me could not help wondering if David would get there in time, too. It’s hard for me to just deliver the candlesticks and leave, knowing that some of these patients are very sick, that some will probably die, and that they are someone’s loved one. I suppose, in a way, each of these ladies reminds me of my mother when she was in the hospital, dying. I suppose that’s why I volunteer.
All during the Sabbath, thoughts of Mrs. Cohen and her grandchildren kept intruding. On Sunday morning, I went back to the hospital to retrieve the candlesticks. As I approached Mrs. Cohen’s room, I saw her granddaughter sitting on the floor outside her door. She looked up as she heard my cart approach.
“Please,” she asked, “could you leave the candlesticks for just a few more hours?”
I was surprised by her request, so she started to explain. She told me that Mrs. Cohen had taught her and her brother, David, everything they knew about being religious. Their parents had divorced when they were very young and both parents had worked long hours. She and her brother spent most weekends with their grandmother. “She made the Sabbath for us,” said Malka. “She cooked and cleaned and baked and the whole house looked and smelled and was... special in a way I can’t even express. Going there was like entering a different world. My brother and I found something there that did not exist anywhere else for us. I don’t know how to make you understand what the Sabbath day meant for us—for all of us, Grandmother, David and me—but it was a respite from the rest of our lives. It was wonderful and it brought David and me back to our religion. David lives in Israel now. He couldn’t get a flight out before today. He’s supposed to be in around six, so if you could please leave the candlesticks until then, I’ll gladly put them away after that.”
I didn’t understand what the candlesticks had to do with David’s arrival. Malka explained. “Don’t you see? For my grandmother, the Sabbath was our day for happiness.
She wouldn’t want to die on the Sabbath. If we could just make her believe that it’s still the Sabbath, maybe she can hold on until David can get here. Just until he can tell her good-bye.”
Nothing would have induced me to touch those candlesticks then, and I told Malka I would come back later. I couldn’t say anything, so I just squeezed her hand.
There are some moments in time, some events, that can bond even total strangers. This was such a moment.
For the rest of the day, I went about my business but couldn’t stop thinking about the drama unfolding at the hospital. Whatever strength that old lady in the hospital bed had left was being expended in just staying alive.
And it wasn’t for herself that she was making the effort. She had already made it clear to me by her attitude that she didn’t fear death. She had seemed to know and accept that it was her time, and was, in fact, ready to go.
For me, Sarah Cohen personified a type of strength I didn’t know existed, and a type of love I didn’t know could be so powerful. She was willing to concentrate her whole being on staying alive through the Sabbath. She didn’t want her loved ones to associate the beauty and joy of the Sabbath with the sadness of her death. And perhaps she also wanted her grandchildren to have the sense of closure that comes from being able to say good-bye to the one person who most profoundly affected their lives.
When I returned to the hospital Sunday night, I was crying before I even reached the room. I looked inside. The bed was empty and the candlesticks had been turned off.
Then I heard a voice behind me say softly, “He made it.”
I looked into Malka’s dry-eyed face. “David arrived this afternoon. He’s saying his prayers now. He was able to tell her good-bye and he also had good news—he and his wife are expecting a baby. If it’s a girl, her name will be Sarah.”
Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.
I wrapped the electric cord around the base of the candlesticks. They were still warm.
Marsha Arons
G
reat thoughts speak only to the thoughtful mind, But great actions speak to all mankind.
Emily P. Bissell
You may have heard of Osceola McCarty. She’s the 88 year-old woman in Mississippi who had worked for over 75 years as a washer woman. One day after she retired, she went to the bank and discovered, to her great surprise, that her meager monthly savings had grown to over $150,000. Then to
everyone’s
great surprise, she turned around and donated $150,000—almost all of those savings— to the University of Southern Mississippi (USM) for a scholarship fund for African-American students with financial needs. She made national headlines.
